


I Slept with Someone in Fall Out Boy and All I Got was This Stupid T-Shirt Holding Us Together

by PadawanRyan



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: And Pete's Annoying, Attempt at Humor, Based on a Tumblr Post, Getting Together, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Smut, Patrick Has a Temper, Takes Place Sometime Around 2007/2008
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:14:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24937378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PadawanRyan/pseuds/PadawanRyan
Summary: Patrick was not happy. “This is the stupidest fucking idea you’ve had in the history of stupid ideas, and that’s saying something, because you have a lot of stupid ideas.”
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 20
Kudos: 45





	I Slept with Someone in Fall Out Boy and All I Got was This Stupid T-Shirt Holding Us Together

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I saw [this post on Tumblr](https://queenoffakers.tumblr.com/post/621326346063413248/i-made-this-joke-before-but-tell-me-these) a few days ago where someone had likened this particular picture of Pete and Patrick to the meme of the children stuck together in their "getting along shirt." And immediately my thought was that someone should write a fic about this — followed immediately by the thought that maybe I should write a fic about it. So, I started writing it that day, but I wasn't feeling totally motivated so I put it away and figured I'd get back to it later.
> 
> I threw a bit more down yesterday and today, and here we are! It's not quite the best thing I've ever written, but it's funny and mildly smutty enough to put me in a good mood, so I'm glad that I took the time to get it done.

Patrick was not happy. “This is the stupidest fucking idea you’ve had in the history of stupid ideas, and that’s saying something, because you have a lot of stupid ideas.”

“Patrick!” Joe clutched his chest dramatically. “You wound me!”

“I really will wound you if you don’t let—”

“Okay, okay, _calm down_.” Trust Andy to be the voice of reason. “Patrick, Pete, this is for your own good. Things have been a little… _rough_ lately and, well, we thought this might do something about all the screaming and throwing things.”

Patrick did not agree. Patrick did not agree _at all_.

Because who the fuck wanted to get themselves attached to Pete Wentz for god knows how long?

He wasn’t even sure how this happened in the first place. Patrick could remember getting up that morning. He could remember eating breakfast. He could remember sitting in the lounge on the bus with his headphones on and fiddling around with a track on his laptop, and he could remember Pete barging onto the bus and deciding to invade Patrick’s personal space. What Patrick could _not_ remember was how Joe and Andy _somehow_ managed to get him and Pete into the same damn shirt at the same damn time.

In the past five minutes since they had succeeded, Patrick managed to block out the memory. “And _this_ was your great idea?”

“Oh, come on, Pattycakes.” Pete poked his side from inside the shirt where, oh yes, they _both_ happened to be stuck. “This could be _fun_ , you know.”

“If you want to keep that hand, then _keep it to_ _yourself_.”

“And see,” Andy began, “this is exactly why this was necessary. You two need to fucking stop this.”

Pete looked at Andy indignantly. “Excuse me? I haven’t done anything.”

Patrick begged to disagree. While Patrick was certainly known for his temper and the majority of the “screaming and throwing things” was definitely Patrick, Pete was also no saint. He did his fair share of screaming and throwing things too, but nothing was quite worse than the way Pete purposely _needled_ Patrick, as though he _wanted_ Patrick to start screaming. As though he _wanted_ Patrick to throw things at him. If they had been five years old, Patrick might have made some comment about Pete having a crush on him — but they were _not_ five years old and Pete could have any fucking person he wanted.

Ergo, Pete was trying to make Patrick angry. Or Pete was an immature, childish brat. Either way, he certainly succeeded at irritating _the fuck_ out of the vocalist. Andy seemed to agree as he pointed out, “you try to get a rise out of him. That counts.”

“Oh, it’s not _my_ fault if Patrick needs to loosen up!” he whined.

The strawberry blonde rolled his eyes so hard that he could feel them in the back of his head. “Can you shut the fuck up?”

Pete chose that moment to nuzzle Patrick’s neck. Goddamn this fucking shirt for putting Pete in such close proximity to him. “But ’Trickykins,” he began, “you know you love me. Don’t you like hearing my voice?”

“No,” he stated, deadpan.

“Oh.”

If Patrick was not so pissed off, he might have cared about how Pete seemed to deflate with that comment. But, alas, he didn’t care about anything else besides the fact that their two bandmates had _forced them_ into this fucking shirt _together_. “Seriously, though,” he began to reason, “what exactly is this supposed to accomplish? We have things to do, and we can’t exact _do them_ if we’re stuck waddling around like a two-headed dragon.”

“Two-headed dragon! And you even breathe fire, too!” Joe exclaimed. Patrick’s glare did nothing to shut him up.

“The point,” Andy explained, “is that you learn to work together.”

“And you couldn’t have figured out literally _any other way_ of accomplishing that besides to stick us into this fucking…‘get along’ shirt?” Patrick couldn’t believe that this was the _only_ option. “I mean,” he argued, “it seems like something parents would do for their unruly children.”

“And in this case, you’re our unruly children,” Joe responded.

Patrick was not swayed. “I’m older than you.”

“Semantics.”

“The idea,” Andy tried again, “is that you’re stuck together, right? To do anything, you have to work together. We don’t have a show today and we’ll have a hotel tonight when we arrive, so you don’t even have to worry about squishing into the same bunk.”

“Wait.” Patrick replayed the statement in his head. “You want us to _sleep_ like this?”

“As long as it takes. Or tomorrow, whichever comes first.”

“Come on, ’Trick.” Pete poked him in the side again, earning him another glare – as best one Patrick could give when his head was _right there_ – as he continued, “we do it for one day and that’s it. Are you saying you can’t stand to be around me for _one day?_ ”

Well, that _would_ seem bad for band morale, he supposed.

It wouldn’t hurt to at least _try_ and show Joe and Andy how stupid they were being about the whole thing.

* * *

It took a grand total of one hour before Patrick was ready to mutiny and cut them out of the shirt. Joe made some sort of bullshit comment like, “my grandma made that shirt before she died!” which Patrick knew was bullshit because Joe’s grandma wasn’t even dead, but that was besides the point. He couldn’t just pull it back over their heads because the neck was too tight – how had the other two even managed to pull it over their heads in the first place? – and after Patrick’s comment about cutting them out, suddenly all the scissors on either bus disappeared. Knives, too.

So, Patrick was resigned to being _stuck_ to Pete, who didn’t seem to have a single problem with the whole situation. Or, if he did, he certainly wasn’t _showing_ it. Patrick was beginning to think it was a conspiracy theory and Pete was in on the whole thing.

“Who wouldn’t want to spend the whole day attached to Patrick Stump?” he asked when Patrick questioned him about it.

And well, that was all Pete was willing to say about it.

Of course, that didn’t mean Pete was willing to cooperate about everything. Patrick wanted to go one place, Pete wanted to go to another. Patrick wanted to eat lunch in the lounge on the bus while he worked on a track, Pete wanted to eat lunch with _other people_ who would actually have to _see them_ in this ridiculous getup. Thankfully, Pete conceded to at least remaining on the bus because Patrick, who was not beyond emotional manipulation (to a degree), argued that he would have Patrick Stump all to himself.

Another time, he would have been wondering why Pete agreed so quickly, but for the time being, he was glad that Pete even agreed.

Well, _glad_ would be stretching it, but he was, at the very least, _thankful_.

But that didn’t mean Pete was _quiet_ the whole time.

“Look, if I’m gonna be stuck to you for god knows how long, can I at _least_ have some peace and quiet?” Patrick pleaded between glares.

Pete wasn’t phased. “But don’t you think it’s important to know whether—”

“No. I do not. I want to _work_. That’s what I want.”

“Come on, ’Trick, you know you—”

“What part about ‘shut the fuck up’ do you not understand?!”

The bassist went quiet for a moment and his face was unreadable. Patrick, if he was less angry, might have been concerned that he hurt the other man’s feelings, but all he could focus on was his irritation. How the hell had they managed to be bandmates for so long when they couldn’t even sit in the same room together without potentially killing each other? Then, suddenly— “Well, the ‘up’ part, I guess.”

Patrick looked at him blankly.

“I mean, I get the ‘shut’ part pretty easily, and ‘the fuck’ is also pretty indicative,” Pete began, “but what exactly is the ‘up’?”

Patrick didn’t have a response for that. What the hell was Pete talking about?

He continued, “well, I guess maybe because the bottom of your jaw goes _up_ when you close your mouth, right? Do you think it started as something like ‘shut your mouth up’ and then just evolved into ‘shut your mouth’ and ‘shut up’ separately? Because I can totally see where—”

“Pete.” Patrick was still struggling to figure out _words_. “What the fuck?”

The other man stared at him, or as best he could when his face was literally _right there_. Their heads were so close together in that shirt that he could kiss Pete.

Not that he _would_ kiss Pete because that would be _absurd_. But it would only—

“You asked,” the bassist responded. “I answered.”

Oh, well. Huh. True.

Patrick’s anger was slipping away, not because Pete had actually managed to provide a logical answer to anything that Patrick had to say – though he had to admit, that _was_ somewhat logical – but because the whole explanation had distracted him so much from why he was even angry in the first place. He knew why – Pete wouldn’t shut the fuck up and let him work, and Pete continuing to not shut the fuck up about what ‘shut the fuck up’ means should have made it worse – but he was just feeling so drained. How was it only…one o’clock?

“Just pass me another slice of pizza,” Patrick muttered, ignoring the satisfied grin on the bassist’s face.

* * *

“It’s a hotel night! Hotel nights are for showering! How are we supposed to _shower_ like this?”

Joe shrugged. “Shower together?”

“Yeah, it’s not as though you’ve never seen each other naked before,” Andy pointed out.

Patrick wished he had thought about the shower situation when the whole shirt thing had started because like, what did they expect him to do? Shampoo Pete’s hair while Pete soaped Patrick’s balls? “But we can’t take the shirt off,” he attempted to reason. “You made that _quite_ clear. And I don’t want to spend all night sleeping in a wet shirt.”

“He has a point,” Pete said. Pete had been surprisingly quiet about the whole thing, so it caught Patrick off guard for a moment.

This time Andy shrugged. “Shower in the morning then.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” the drummer responded. “Figure this shit out for yourselves, that’s the whole point — you’re supposed to be _working together._ ”

And that was how Patrick ended up laying on a hotel bed with Pete Wentz plastered to his side, feeling gross and sticky and wanting to be literally anywhere else. He wanted a bed to himself. He wanted a shower. He wanted to be able to fucking _jerk off_. And sure, he’d jerked off in front of Pete before – where else were five tired boys in a broken down van supposed to go when they had no money for even a motel room? – but there was a difference between jerking off in front of Pete about girls and jerking off in front of Pete _about Pete_.

If only Pete would stop fucking _fidgeting_. Couldn’t he sit still for even five minutes?

“Pete. Stop that.”

“Stop what?” the other man asked. Patrick couldn’t read in his tone of voice whether it was a sincere question or not.

Patrick gestured with his one free hand. “The…that. Fidgeting. Stop it.”

Pete flushed. “Oh, I…sorry, I didn’t realize…”

That _did_ get Patrick’s attention, because although Pete had his share of embarrassing moments – probably far many than the rest of them – it wasn’t common for him to seem…nervous like that in Patrick’s presence. It was usually in Patrick’s presence that Pete seemed the most comfortable, and the fact that he’d seemed comfortable _all day while fucking stuck inside a shirt with Patrick_ seemed to attest to that. So, Patrick couldn’t help but try to look at Pete’s face for any clue of what exactly was running through his head.

But Pete was staring ahead at the television set, seemingly fixated on not meeting Patrick’s gaze. Well, if Pete didn’t want to discuss it, then that was that.

Patrick, too, tried to focus on the television set. There was some reality show playing, he couldn’t quite remember the name or the plot or even what had happened only a minute earlier because his brain was too occupied to _actually_ focus. He felt movement again from Pete and simply tried to block out the fidgeting — clearly whatever it was bothered Pete and he didn’t want Patrick pestering him about it, and although he would be justified in pestering Pete because what had Pete been doing to him all day? He didn’t want to press. He didn’t even want to _be_ there.

Until the movement became more difficult to ignore – surely that was more than simple fidgeting – and Patrick turned. “Okay, I didn’t want to press, but what the f—”

Pete’s free hand was by his side and it seemed like he was making a lot of effort not to move it, not to look like something was wrong.

His other hand, however – the one _beneath_ the shirt – was the one moving.

And Patrick knew that if he were to let his hand cross the barrier between him and Pete beneath that shirt, he would find that Pete’s hand was inside his pants. Because just as much as he had jerked off in front of Pete before, the bassist had _also_ jerked off in front of him before, and Patrick would recognize Pete jerking off anywhere. Pete jerking off was one of the images he fantasized about — it was only too bad that they didn’t share a bus, because he’d like to think that he could lay there in his bunk and jerk off to the sound of Pete jerking off in the same room, only curtains hiding them from one another.

Okay, he wasn’t going there. Not right now.

But what were his options? He could say something and break the spell — Pete would surely be embarrassed and would immediately remove his hand from his pants, but then there would be tension and Patrick probably wouldn’t be able to sleep. Not that he’d have an easy time getting to sleep while _trapped in a shirt with Pete_ , but he could do without some additional tension. Especially if that tension came with blue balls.

He could pretend he didn’t notice anything, but that would _also_ result in blue balls. So, Patrick reasoned, his best option would be to deal with the growing hardness in his own pants.

Unbuckling his belt was the hard part – not just one-handed, but also quiet enough not to draw Pete’s attention (though he couldn’t imagine Pete didn’t know what he was doing) – but once he felt the warm, firm length in his hands, he felt it was worth it. Pete was quiet but had the movement of his hand not given him away, his breath certainly would have, and Patrick clung onto that sound as he slowly stroked his own shaft. He wasn’t quite so good at being quiet and bit his lip to keep from moaning. Then—

“Patrick?”

“Hmm?” he hummed. He didn’t want to open his mouth and betray himself.

The bassist seemed to hesitate. “Are you…?” he trailed off, not finishing the question but clearly expecting Patrick to understand what was being asked. He nodded, still not trusting his mouth enough in order to give a verbal response. Patrick would just have to trust that Pete could feel the motion of his head.

“Okay.” Patrick thought that was it, until Pete continued with, “do you want some help with that?”

He couldn’t possibly say _yes_ , because then he would have to deal with _Pete’s hand_ on him, and how could he go back to normal after that?

But how could he say _no_ to the thought of _Pete’s hand_ on him?

It wasn’t as though Patrick had been harbouring a crush on Pete for years. Sure, that would be romantic, but that wasn’t the way the world worked. He knew there was some sort of sexual tension between them – that was inevitable with the way Pete was always pressing into Patrick’s space, both onstage and off – but it was only more recently that he realized that perhaps he had _feelings_ for Pete. Patrick was sure that was the reason he had been so angry at Pete lately, so prone to screaming matches and throwing things: reconciling himself with his feelings for the man who could be found under any and every skirt he wanted.

He wouldn’t call it love – not yet – but he also wouldn’t be able to _just get over it_ in the morning either.

And yet — “Please. _Please_.”

And suddenly there was Pete’s hand – his free hand, not the one in his own pants – pulling down his zipper for easier access to Patrick’s cock. He didn’t quite push Patrick’s hand out of the way, but Patrick had to stop stroking so that Pete had room to pick up where he had left off. Pete stroked faster than Patrick had, gripping him a little tighter but not too tight. The little squeeze Pete gave as his hand came down over Patrick’s head caused the younger man to gasp, and— yupp, his mouth was open, and there was a moan.

“God, fuck, _Pete_.” He was rocking into the bassist’s touch. “Oh my _god_.”

“Worshipping me, Patrick?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Oh, I’ll shut the fuck up alright.” And there were Pete’s lips right on Patrick’s, causing the vocalist to gasp again in surprise. Pete took advantage of Patrick’s open mouth to press in with his tongue, and _god_ — why hadn’t they done this before? Patrick moaned, which must have caused something in Pete to break because he rolled over onto Patrick – much easier than Patrick expected, but he supposed they were practically already stuck together – and started _devouring_ the younger man’s mouth. Pete’s hand continued to stroke and squeeze and Patrick could feel himself coming close, close, close—

“Ahhhh _fuck_ ,” he groaned as he spilled into the bassist’s hand. “Fuck, _Pete_.”

“‘Fuck Pete’, I like the sound of that.”

Patrick would glare at the other man, but well, he couldn’t find it within himself to be annoyed when Pete had just made him see stars. It certainly wasn’t the best hand job he’d ever had in his life – and it was over pretty quickly too – but god, he probably wouldn’t have asked for anything else at that moment.

“Did you…?” This time it was Patrick’s turn to trail off, expecting Pete to understand what was being asked.

Pete ground down on Patrick’s softening cock. “Uhhh, not yet.”

“Here.” Patrick reached into Pete’s sweatpants and _did_ shove the other man’s hand out of the way, grasping his thick length. “Let me.”

“Ohhhh, _fuck_. Patrick,” the bassist began. “Patrick, Patrick, _Patrick_.”

It was a miracle that Pete would manage to be quiet when jerking himself off when he couldn’t even keep his mouth shut when Patrick’s hand was on him, but Patrick wouldn’t have it any other way. He stroked slowly to begin with, teasing the other man by pressing the tip of his head every time his hand brushed over it, before speeding up his ministrations. Pete panted and groaned and leaned back down to again capture the vocalist’s mouth. Patrick rocked up against Pete – god, he’d probably get hard again if this lasted much longer, as he was still young enough that he would probably be able to go again soon – to create more friction between him and Pete’s cock.

He bit down gently on Pete’s lip and this must have been what pushed the bassist over the edge, because suddenly he groaned and Patrick’s hand was coated with a familiar warmth.

“God, _Patrick_ ,” he breathed out, collapsing on the younger man.

Patrick shoved at him, though it was difficult considering the constraints of the shirt didn’t give him anywhere to go. “Dude, you’re crushing me.”

“Crushing _on_ you.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Patrick muttered. He did _not_ want to get into that sort of conversation now.

Not while he was spent and sated enough that maybe – just _maybe_ – they would actually be able to fall asleep together in this _damn fucking shirt_.

* * *

It felt like it was too early when the door slammed open and Joe’s voice boomed, “rise and shine, sleepy heads! We’re here to set you free!”

Patrick groaned and opened his eyes briefly before squeezing them tight. The light from the window indicated that it was clearly well into the morning, so at least it wasn’t fucking _dawn_ , but he was so comfortable that he didn’t want to move. What was Joe even talking about, anyway? Set him free from what? And what exactly was that weight on top of him—oh, right. Pete. It was Pete who was _trapped inside an oversized shirt with Patrick_ , Pete whose hand has been on _Patrick’s dick_ last night, Pete who fell asleep _mouthing Patrick’s neck_ —

“Oh hey, it worked!” Joe sounded way too cheery for whatever the fuck time it was in the morning.

But Patrick was curious, despite his aggravation. “What worked?”

“Is there or is there not a Pete Wentz-shaped _hickey_ on your neck, Patrick Stump?”

If this was a romantic comedy, Patrick would have leaped out of bed to check his neck in a mirror. Instead, he still had part of Pete’s body weighing down on his left half while they were still trapped inside a shirt, so that particular course of action would probably result in nothing but pain as the two of them crumbled to the floor together. So, Patrick groaned again and opened his eyes to glare at Joe and stated, “I know where you sleep.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” the guitarist said as he came closer with a pair of scissors. “It’s Pete I have to live with, but Pete also got what he wanted, so—”

“Wait.” Patrick repeated the words in his head. “What?”

The bassist began to shift above him. Perfect timing, because now Patrick could grill _him_ in addition to Joe. “Pete?” the vocalist asked as the other man blearily opened his eyes and looked down at him. “What the fuck is he talking about?”

“Huh? I—”

“Were you in on it the entire fucking time?”

And there was the look of guilt. Pete was _guilty_. Oh god, he _was_ in on it the whole time. What was this, some sort of game? Well, of course it was a game to Joe and Andy — they made it quite clear that although they had _legitimate reasons_ for forcing the two of them into a shirt together, it amused the fuck out of them. But what the hell was this to Pete? Just another way of pissing off Patrick when everything else he tried hadn’t done enough damage? Patrick could feel the anger bubbling up, and something must have shown on his face because Joe stalled in his tracks.

“Hey, Patrick, calm down. I’m not cutting you out of the shirt when you look that murderous.”

“What the fuck was this? Is this really how you fucking spend your time, just looking for all the ways to make my life more difficult?” He was seething.

Pete gulped. “No, Patrick. _Please_. It’s not like that at all, I prom—”

“Then what _is_ it like, huh? What could possibly be fucking worth all of this?”

“I like you!”

Pete was flushed and looking away from Patrick’s face, which was still pretty close to his considering they were still held together by the shirt. “I like you. And you know me, I’m Pete Wentz, I am a total _fuckwad_ when it comes to feelings, so I couldn’t just _tell you_ that. Who says you’d even believe me, anyway? You’d probably think it was a total joke,” he explained. “So, when Joe and Andy made a joke about how we needed to be tied together or something so that we’d get along, I might have…well, not _discouraged_ it…”

Patrick stared at him. “You encouraged it.”

“Just a bit.”

“God.” He didn’t even know what to say, but he could feel the anger seeping away. “You can’t be fucking normal for once, can you?”

“Well, I wouldn’t be Pete Wentz if I was, so…”

“I don’t know why,” Patrick began, “but I actually like Pete Wentz.” And then he used his one free hand to press Pete’s face to his, Pete’s lips to his, completely forgetting that there was another person in the room. Pete smiled into the kiss and lightly ground against Patrick, and— yupp, there was Pete’s morning wood. Patrick rocked back, but the moment Pete let out a low whimper, both men were brought to halt by the sound of someone clearing their throat.

“As much as I’m happy you two worked out your stupid fucking sex shit,” Joe said, “I would _really_ like to just cut you out of the shirt and leave.”

Pete rolled off Patrick and did nothing to hide the tent in his sweatpants as he patted his chest. “Cut me open, doc!”

Joe leaned over the two of them and cut into the shirt, slicing from the bottom right to the collar. He had to be careful not to accidentally stab either of his bandmates in the neck, so both men lay perfectly still, but the moment that the constraints of the shirt no longer held them, Pete whooped and jumped right back down on Patrick. Holding him down with both hands, the bassist captured his mouth again for a quick, hard kiss.

“Come on, man! At least wait until I leave the room to fucking suck face.”

Patrick lifted one hand – not quite so easy since Pete was holding down his arms – to give Joe the finger as the bassist laughed. “Then hurry up and leave because I have a ’Trickster to deflower here!” Pete exclaimed, leaning in to nibble gently at his neck. The spot was tender and Patrick figured that must be the ‘Pete Wentz-shaped hickey’.

“Not a virgin,” he reminded Pete, ignoring the muttering sounds of the guitarist leaving the hotel room.

Pete grinned at him. “You haven’t had the Pete Wentz experience yet, so buckle up—”

“Please tell me you aren’t going to say I’m in—”

“You’re in for a wild ride!”

Patrick rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t actually find it in himself to be irritated whatsoever at the comment. Pete Wentz might be one giant annoyance, but he got the impression that from here on out, Pete Wentz was _his_ giant annoyance. And that was fine and dandy with him, as long as Pete dealt with the giant annoyance in his— yupp, there it was, Pete’s hand was on his already leaking cock.

 _That_ was something with which Patrick could get on board.

**Author's Note:**

> Also, the “What part about ‘shut the fuck up’ do you not understand?!” “Well, the ‘up’ part, I guess” is actually based on a conversation I had with a teacher in high school, when he asked the class what part about "shut up" we didn't understand and I was just like, "the 'up' part, sir." It wasn't a serious discussion - he wasn't _actually_ angry and therefore I wasn't being _legitimately_ indignant - but it's been like 12 years since that moment and I still think about it all the time.
> 
> Follow me on social media! I'm **padawanryan** on [Tumblr](https://padawanryan.tumblr.com/), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/PadawanRyan), and [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/padawanryan/). ✌️


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